Tallapoosa

  Sure enough, they had three giant bucks by midday. Carrying them back to the cart proved the toughest job of the hunt. The front feet of each carcass had to be lashed together; likewise the back feet. A strong staff was passed through the tethers and shouldered by the hunters, one in front and one at the rear. Cal and Adelin struggled under the weight of each kill. The bucks, they speculated, must certainly be among the heaviest in all of the Mississippi Territory.

  Cal and Adelin agreed that two more would be enough, maybe only one. It would take several days to dress the meat and cure the skins they already had. Besides, they sympathized, that’s about all that poor old George could be expected to haul in such frigid weather.

  “Be patient, George,” consoled Adelin, petting the mule, “we’ll be going home soon.” George contentedly grazed near the cart, having been staked out when they arrived in the hollow.

  Cal and Adelin resumed the hunt, tracking their prey in a small branch bottom, careful to stay downwind from the buck’s suspected location. They had caught a glimpse of him once from about two hundred yards distance.

  “There,” whispered Cal, pointing to an outcrop fifty yards ahead. Adelin nodded. “He’s gotta be around that knob.”

  They approached the granite outcrop. Adelin crept over the top while Cal eased around the low side. No deer.

  “Where did he go?” pondered Cal, disappointed. “I just know he was here.”

  “Must have gotten wind of us somehow. Let’s keep after him.” Adelin jumped from the rock and fell in beside Cal as they continued along the burn.

  They stopped dead still. Thirty yards ahead, from around the next outcrop, strolled four painted Red Sticks. The Creeks saw Cal and Adelin at the same time. They, too, stopped and stared, indecisive.

  “Don’t move,” cautioned Cal.

  “Now we know what spooked the buck, don’t we?” said Adelin.

  The Red Sticks each carried a bright red war club. Only one held a musket, the others bows. Their appearance was that of angry warriors, definitely not of congenial neighbors.

  Cal tried anyway. He raised an arm with an open palm. “Peace.” A pause. “Friends?”

  Threats and curses in angry Muskogean met his overture. The Indians brandished their clubs as they spread out in a line.

  “Back away. Slowly,” said Cal, pushing Adelin behind him. “Don’t take your eyes off them.”

  They inched toward the rock they had just left. The Creeks held their ground. The one with the musket fidgeted with it.

  “Are we going to have to fight them?” asked Adelin.

  “I don’t know. That old short barreled musket he’s got won’t hit anything past his arm. It looks like it might not even fire. The ones with the bows are probably more dangerous.”

  They reached the rock and ducked behind it. They showed their muskets, pulled the flintlocks to full cock, and positioned the steel strikes. The Red Sticks had not advanced but had widened their separation.

  An arrow grazed the top of the rock, skipped high, and pierced the ground ten yards behind them.

  “Hey!” shrieked Adelin. “That was close!”

  “Don’t shoot,” said Cal. “Hold steady. They may just be bluffing.” Noting the Creeks’ indecision, he had an idea. “Let me try something. You keep your musket primed.”

  Cal aimed and fired. The pan of his musket flashed, the muzzle thundered flame and smoke. A musket ball crashed into the pine tree behind the Indian with the musket, who seemed to be the leader. He ducked away, glanced at the tree, saw that the gash was only inches above his head. He yelled and shook the gun in one hand and his club in the other at Cal.

  The Red Stick barked something to his companions, then turned again to Cal with more curses. The other warriors backed off. He followed, still threatening, still jeering, angrier than ever. They disappeared around the far outcrop.

  Cal finished reloading. He breathed relief. “Glad that worked. If we had to shoot any of them, they would be all over us back at the river. If we made it back to the river, that is.” He visibly sweated from the ordeal, even in the cold. “Let’s get back to George and hurry home. I think we have enough venison for now.”

  Adelin already scurried ahead of him. “I certainly have to agree with that. I’ve had enough deer hunting for one day. And enough Indian fighting for a lifetime.”

  23

  Knoxville, Tennessee, January 29, 1814

  Judge Hugh Lawson White had been back in Knoxville less than a week and, he felt certain, the town made fine sport about his misadventure. He thought it not so humorous, and neither would his fellow citizens if they only knew the danger to his father, General James White.

  Three weeks earlier, Judge White, the Chief Justice of the Tennessee Supreme Court, received news of his sixty-six-year-old father’s exploits in Alabama country fighting the vicious Creek Indians. Word was that he had fought bitter battles with a faction of the savages and, though he had been victorious, his regiment had suffered numerous casualties. Further, he and his superior officer, Major General John Cocke, had joined forces with General Andrew Jackson, the Major General of the Tennessee State Militia, who had been campaigning in Alabama since October. White figured that Jackson, whom he mistrusted, could only lead his father and his troops into more danger and hardship, and that was no place for an elderly man.

  James White, the founding father of Knoxville, had served honorably as a captain of militia in the Revolutionary War. Later, he had been a North Carolina legislator where he had voted to ratify the new United States Constitution. He had moved gradually west until he settled at the site of Knoxville, naming the new settlement White’s Fort. White’s Fort served as the territorial capital and, after being renamed Knoxville by White himself, was the first capital of the State of Tennessee, remaining so until 1812. White had been elected to the senate of the new state and had served briefly as the speaker. He had been appointed major in the state militia, then lieutenant colonel, and finally brigadier general, a commission he had held for a decade and a half. When the Creek troubles began in the Mississippi Territory, General White felt young again and itched to go to war. He set about growing his militia command to a thousand men.

  “What the hell do you think you can do, Father?” scolded Justice Hugh Lawson White, his oldest son. “You’re sixty-six. You have no business commanding a regiment of active militia. And you damn sure shouldn’t go off fighting godless, barbaric Indians in an infested wilderness.”

  “Son, I’m fitter than I’ve ever been. My men need me, and I hear the call. I can’t let my country down.”

  “Horse hooves! You’ve served your country over and over, more than mortal man can be expected to. General Cocke should be flogged for asking you to raise a regiment and join him in his reckless venture.”

  Judge White could not dissuade the stubborn old man and so, in early November after raising an army, Major General John Cocke marched south with Brigadier James White in command of one of his infantry regiments. Young General Cocke relished the glory he expected to receive but complained bitterly that General Jackson had beaten him to the field. After the Fort Mims massacre had beckoned to patriots of the State of Tennessee, Cocke had thought that none other than Cocke himself should lead the charge to Alabama country.

  Judge White had no doubts that Cocke purposefully targeted his father to join his campaign because of the political muscle the old man could wield. As an ally and a confidant of both Blounts, Willie and his late brother William, and John Sevier, James White had laid in reserve hefty stores of influence. General Cocke knew this and would not hesitate to draw on it to enhance his own military exploits or to promote himself in an expected rivalry with General Jackson.

  Alarmed at the news from Alabama, Judge Hugh Lawson White knew he had to get his father out. Nothing had worked to keep the old man from going but, by god, the younger White would go after him a
nd drag him back by force if necessary!

  White and two of his aides set off on horseback, thinking they could reach the middle stretches of the Coosa River where his father supposedly camped with General Jackson and General Cocke. They followed the Tennessee River to the southwest until they were sure they had entered the Mississippi Territory, then struck due south across a wide table top mountain, thinking to intersect the upper Coosa and follow it into the wilderness. They soon found themselves lost. With no roads and having no guide familiar with the region, and inadequately equipped and provisioned, Judge White admitted the folly of his scheme and turned back toward Knoxville.

  His homecoming was less than glorious. No one chided him to his face, but he knew there was talk. He would have talked, too, he supposed, for someone in his position should have acted more rationally. However, his reputation would survive; and he wasn’t finished attempting to retrieve his father from the jaws of the murdering Creeks in the Alabama wilderness.

  Hugh Lawson White enjoyed considerable political leverage himself, independent of his father’s influence, and now was the time to use it. He knew that General Jackson had been clamoring for President Madison and Secretary of War Armstrong to assign him regular troops to use against the Creeks. By a happenstance, the Thirty-Ninth Infantry, commanded by White’s brother-in-law, Colonel John Williams, was quartered near Knoxville awaiting orders for New Orleans. Justice White had already sent dispatches to Armstrong and Congressman Sevier requesting that the Thirty-Ninth be temporarily placed under his jurisdiction. He lobbied Governor Blount to increase his own efforts for the services of the Thirty-Ninth. Peppered through his arguments to all were more than subtle hints and promises of future political favors.

  Soon, authorization to temporarily assign the Thirty-Ninth as he saw fit reached Justice White. His next step was to convince Colonel Williams, for without his accord the campaign could not succeed.

  “Hugh, I welcome the challenge,” agreed Williams as he and Judge White strolled the grounds of the new administration and lecture building of Blount College. James White had donated the land for the school and was a member of the original Board of Trustees that chartered it in 1794. “You knew I would.”

  “Yes. But I had to present to you a formal request.”

  “You need have no qualms about the motivations of my men. I feel certain that they would rather journey to Alabama country and fight the Creeks than to engage the British at New Orleans. They shall perform with distinction, have no doubts.”

  “I know your regiment is among the finest trained in the entire army. And I know you to be a superb commander. I have every confidence in your prospects of success.” The two paused to appreciate the vista of the Tennessee River that lay before them. “Incidentally, congratulations. Best of fortune on your birthday. Melinda reminded me that today is your thirty-sixth.”

  Melinda was Hugh White’s sister, married to Colonel Williams. “Yes, she does talk, doesn’t she? But thank you for your sentiments.”

  “When I talked with her yesterday, she was as worried as I about Father. But she didn’t particularly embrace the idea of you going to his rescue.”

  “She accepts that I am a soldier. It’s been a year since I returned from Florida. With my new commission, she knew I would be assigned a campaign soon, probably New Orleans. I think that in spite of her protests she would prefer that I pursue her father in Alabama than to embark on an impersonal adventure to Louisiana.”

  Williams had begun his military career as a U.S. Army infantry captain at age twenty-one, but after two years of service had resigned and become a lawyer in Knoxville. When the new war with England broke out he raised a cavalry force of two hundred volunteers and led them to Florida as their colonel. His troop devastated the Seminole opposition and they returned as glorious victors. Soon after, Williams accepted a commission as colonel in command of the Thirty-Ninth United States Army Infantry Regiment. He had recruited, equipped, and trained his regiment to an elite force of six hundred crack soldiers eager to prove themselves.

  “I’m humbled by your confidence in me and my men.” Williams, a modest man, savored White’s praise but felt compelled to share it. “For sure, I have under my command a collection of some of the finest young officers in the U.S. military. I’m very proud of them. In Alabama, New Orleans, wherever, they are destined to cover themselves with glory. They and a fine enlisted cadre make it easy for me to be a successful officer.”

  “Little argument that General Jackson will welcome you; by the way, I alerted Governor Blount to send a dispatch to him two weeks ago that he might soon expect your services.”

  “Confident of your persuasive ability, weren’t you, brother-in-law?” chuckled the colonel.

  “Just confident of the politics involved, that’s all,” White smiled slyly. “A man helps his cause if he knows which chain to pull and when to pull it. When will you leave?”

  “Two days, I think. It’ll take about a week of forced march to reach Jackson’s encampment. If your father is still there, my first act will be to request that his superiors order him home.”

  24

  The Murph settlement, early February, 1814

  Muskets in one hand and fishing spears and rawhide nets in the other, Cal and Adelin picked their way down the trail of loose stones and ruts. Below, Saul already fished from the rocks in the middle of the river. Soosquana sat in a chair at the edge of the bluff near the oak tree, nursing baby Anna.

  “I saw a mouse this morning, Cal. Next to the fireplace.”

  “Did you kill it?”

  “Couldn’t catch it. He got away through that big crack behind the bottom stone.”

  “I have to patch that.”

  “Yes, you do. And I think we need a cat.”

  “What?”

  Adelin laughed at Cal’s surprised reaction. “A cat. A mouse catcher. You’ve heard of cats, haven’t you?”

  “And where are we gonna get a cat?”

  “We can get one from the farm when we journey up there this summer. A kitten. Maybe two. Anna’s gonna need a pet soon, anyway.”

  “How about a puppy while we’re at it?”

  “Yeah. Why not? The more the better.”

  “You’re hard to live with,” he scolded as Adelin giggled.

  “’Bout time y’all got here,” greeted Saul as the couple stepped lightly across the slippery rocks after leaving their muskets and pouches propped against a big boulder on the river bank. “I already have two. See?” He held up a string with two nice catfish attached.

  After a half hour, three strings held several fish each. A spirited competition developed, but Saul’s skill kept him well ahead. He grinned happily at each success as his two rivals screamed at him.

  “Saul!” Soosquana, from atop the bluff, did not make herself heard at first. “Saul!” she yelled louder.

  She pointed upriver. Saul stooped to clear an overhanging limb from his line of sight. Cal and Adelin also sought unobstructed views. They saw a blob heading toward them, surely a canoe though not quite yet discernible.

  As the canoe came into focus, another cleared the bend behind it, then another. The two latter ones seemed to be chasing the first. As the first one closed to within a hundred and fifty yards, a puff of smoke erupted from the second canoe. The clap of a musket rolled down the river.

  “Hey!” yelped a surprised Cal. “What’s going on?”

  “We better move aside,” understated Saul. All three were already scurrying toward the bank and their muskets.

  Since they would not have time to make it all the way up the trail, Saul, Adelin, and Cal hid in the brush a few yards up the bluff. Saul looked anxiously for Soosquana. He didn’t see her, but he knew he wouldn’t. He was sure she had taken the baby to the safety of their cabin. He looked back to the drama before him.

  The lead canoe was close enough to see
that its occupants included a strapping warrior, probably a Hillabi, in the stern. A young boy, barely a teenager, frantically paddled from the bow. Between them a woman crouched as low as possible, protecting with her body what apparently was a small child. The trailing boats each carried two warriors, paddling hard and screaming and cursing. They wore the red paint of Red Sticks and they gained fast on their quarry as the shoals loomed ahead.

  The warrior with the family aimed his canoe’s bow toward the deepest opening between rocks, one of many where the flow of the river converged to narrow slots and thus accelerated to cascade wildly through the maze of boulders and eddies of the shoals. He skillfully hit the opening dead center, with scant inches of clearance on either side. He rode the current dizzily, controlling his bow as best he could with his paddle as a rudder, until he again hit flat water forty yards along the trace. The current remained swift but he now had full control.

  The first pursuer spilled through the same gap and skidded toward the fleeing boat. As the two occupants fought for control, the warrior powering the pursued canoe suddenly back paddled, furiously turning his craft sideways to slow it in the fast current. The chasing canoe caught up quickly and was about to slide past just as the two warriors regained steerage and began to react to the surprising maneuver.

  Too late! The first warrior twisted his body and raised his paddle in both hands as he would wield an ax and swung it full into the face of the other vessel’s bowman as it raced alongside. The splat of the paddle against his mouth interrupted the man’s scream. The blow knocked him sideways. He grabbed the gunwale of the canoe in a desperate effort to stay aboard. Unsuccessful, he tumbled into the water, turning the boat over behind him as he continued to hang on. His partner leaped clear with an angry curse.